


For King and Country

by tisfan



Series: MCU Kink Bingo [21]
Category: Black Panther (2018), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M, Mild Blood, One Night Stands, Oral Sex, Scratching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-05 22:30:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13397619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisfan/pseuds/tisfan
Summary: T’challa has to get married. But before that happens, he will have one night with everything he wants, just because he wants it. And what he wants… is Sam Wilson.





	For King and Country

They said the king was the country.

Sam couldn’t decide if that said something impressive about T’challa, that he was king of this very modern, very impressive city, or if it said something about Wakanda that could produce men like the king.

Sam had never been to Africa before. He found himself gawking like a child, craving new sights and sounds, smells and foods. He couldn’t stop himself from exploring, from constantly ducking down new side streets and spending time in the markets, even though it made those Wakandans charged with keeping “the Americans” in line impatient with him.

Eventually, whatever distrust faded, and resignation took its place. Sam was allowed to wander where he wanted, so long as he didn’t cause trouble. Trouble, according to the Dora Milaje was flirting with the King, so Sam took every opportunity to make eyes at T’challa. Who didn’t notice, of course. And Sam couldn’t really decide if he was interested, interested, or just annoying the people who were set to guard the king, and who pretty much hated the renegades. Sam didn’t blame them. But it didn’t keep him from being an ass. Nothing new there. Sam’s mouth was always writing checks he couldn’t cash.

He had his routine, really. A jog in the morning with Steve, around the compound where T’challa had made them welcome, a little adjoining building in the governmental palace. Not quite prisoners, not quite guests.

Like the rest of the renegade Avengers, he spent some time with a royal tutor who attempted to teach them the language of Wakanda. Sam had a lot of trouble at first, his tongue didn’t want to make those sounds, he was quite convinced they weren’t real sounds at all, that it was some sort of elaborate hoax, but his competitiveness with Steve eventually took over and Sam found himself some six months in to their exile being semi-fluent, talking in the marketplace with ease.

And then he would wander.

He discovered a lovely public park, the walkways lined with food carts and he would grab a bite to eat -- the King provided an allowance of the local currency and no one really needed to buy much. Food and lodgings were provided. Although Amazon didn’t deliver to Wakanda, which had made Clint and Wanda both unhappy.

He parked his ass on a bench, beautifully carved from wood, and just watched. Watched the people and their families, children and their pets. Wondered why he’d bought into the American myth as Africa, a poverty stricken third world place.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” T’challa asked.

Only months of spending time with the Black Widow, who had that same tendency to pop out of the shadows like a depraved jack-in-the-box kept Sam from leaping out of his skin. “It is,” he agreed. T’challa sat down on the bench next to Sam without so much as a by-your-leave. What did a king need with permission. Everything in the country belonged to him, park, bench, and probably even Sam.

“I am told by my advisors that I must marry, and that, soon,” T’challa said.

Was that a warn-away?

“Congrats?” Sam wasn’t sure what to say to that, and the way his stomach was sinking into his sneakers, he started feeling like maybe flirting with T’challa had been a little more serious and a little less about making an ass of himself than he was willing to admit, because damn, he was suddenly disappointed.

“It will be a political thing,” T’challa said. “An heir, of course, to carry on the mantle of warrior and king. Not a thing of love, although sometimes, love grows, over time.”

“Got a lady in mind?”

“If I had someone in mind, do you think I would be here, looking for sympathy?” T’challa asked. His voice tingled on Sam’s nerves, soothing and delicious. He could fall asleep listening to the man read a grocery list, could sit at his feet and--

What now, brain?

“Is that what you’re looking for?”

“To a certain degree,” T’challa said. “Also, to celebrate what remains of my freedom, to perhaps find someone to share it with.”

“You lookin’ to get lucky, before you end up hitched?” Well, that was something Sam could understand; the need to cut loose before you commited.

“I did not wish to become King,” T’challa said. “I would have preferred my father to live a long and healthy life. I took up the burden of being the Black Panther, when I would rather have been a scholar than a warrior. I should like, for one night in my life, to do what I wish, only for the sake that I wish it.”

“I thought the whole point of bein’ a king was that no one could tell you what to do,” Sam said, which was both flippant and rude, but it was annoying him that the richest men in the world still had problems. What was a brother to do if he couldn’t hate the Man?

“The whole point of being the king is that everyone in my country may tell me what to do. It is my burden and greatest honor to exceed those expectations,” T’challa said.

“Sounds like a major bummer,” Sam replied. “You want somethin’ quick and dirty, or are we lookin’ to get drunk and burn the bar down?”

“Neither,” T’challa said. “You have been upsetting the Dora Milaje by proceeding to imply interest in sexual relations with me. I wished to spend the night with you.”

“Because of me, or because of them?” Sam knew it didn’t really matter, he was going to take the opportunity, regardless. Or, at least, it didn’t matter to influence his decision, but it might matter in how he felt about it later.

“You are a beautiful man, Samuel Wilson,” T’challa said, his perfect voice wrapping around the syllables of Sam’s name like a silk shawl. “And with no thought to gain, or no subservience, and with nothing to offer, you have made a proposal to me. Perhaps you are the only man in Wakanda with whom I can share such a thing, and expect no reprisals or obligations.”

“Royal booty call, got it,” Sam said, and he felt his lip turn up in that self-deprecating sneer. “Sure, I can do that. No strings attached night of wild, tear down the walls, break the bed sex.”

***

T’challa stared at the man. Beneath the American clothing and the smart-ass attitude that so annoyed the Dora Milaje, there was a potent man, filling up T’challa’s bed with his strength and innate power.

T’challa knew what it took, what training and dedication, to learn to maneuver so well in combat; he himself had taken many years to master the way of the Panther that he would be able to protect his country and his people. Samuel Wilson had done the same with a pair of fragile metal wings and a rocket pack. Primitive tech, there was so much better and more that the technologists and engineers of Wakanda could do for him.

And perhaps, is Samuel was pleasing, this night, the King would suggest that the renegades be thus upgraded. It was a mere nothing; and T’challa had to admit, a little bit of showing off. So long, hiding, and it was time for Wakanda to take its place in the world. Not as a purveyor of quaint, third world novelties, but for the technological wonder that it was.

T’challa locked the door behind him. No one would disturb him on this one night. He was owed this much, at least.

They both wore little clothing; T’challa had sent for Samuel after dinner, along with a bottle of the finest Wakanda spirits, and a silken lounge robe, the same sort that T’challa wore in his private quarters. The brighter colors and cut suited Samuel well, even if he wore it with some unease. Well, he would not be wearing it long.

For a long moment, they merely stared at each other, each waiting for the other to make the first move. Then Samuel stepped into T’challa’s arms, at the same moment that T’challa waved a hand to dim the lights.

The first brush of Samuel’s lips drew a soft sigh of pleasure from them both. For T’challa, it was the taste of the forbidden, for Samuel, perhaps, the first touch in a long, long time. He did not seem to have a particular companion among the renegades and what information T’challa had on the man suggested it had been many years since his partner had died.

It wasn’t nearly enough, and T’challa held Samuel’s shoulders, pulling him in closer, deepened the kiss, parted his lips to taste Samuel’s heat, his need. Like a starving man, Samuel fed from his mouth, holding on so tightly that T’challa could feel the restrained strength in his arms.

T’challa pushed the robe down over Samuel’s shoulders, admired the lines and form of the man. Muscular arms, flat stomach, ridged chest with only a brush of dark curls. T’challa couldn’t get enough of the man, could have touched him for a year and it would have been too short. As it was, he had one night, and it still could not possible quench his thirst.

Samuel tugged on the sash that held T’challa’s robe closed and then they were naked against each other, warm skin brushing and fingers exploring. Samuel was lean and strong, tall and lithe and perfect. T’challa shoved him onto the bed, took no time at all in climbing over him and rubbing the length of his body against Samuel.

“Oh, you like that, do you?” Samuel asked, and without any more thought to foreplay, he ran a hand down T’challa’s chest, found the thick length of his erection and stroked.

T’challa let Samuel roll them over, take control, take the lead. He touched and stroked and slid against the other man, listening to the eager sounds Samuel made. A wave of pure lust filled him up, making him suck in a harsh breath. Pure and potent, more than he knew what to do with. His arms went around Samuel’s back and longing, need, made his hands shape into sensual claws, raking his fingernails down Samuel’s back.

Samuel made a sound, a rich, dark growl of satisfaction and then lowered his mouth to T’challa’s chest, licking and tasting his way down.

When Samuel reached the sensitive skin of T’challa’s belly, he was writhing with sensation, not knowing what to do, only that it _must not_ stop. Samuel took him in, sucking on the head of T’challa’s cock. T’challa hissed in pleasure, his whole body arching up off the bed. His hands were on Samuel’s head, fingers clenching at his scalp.

“You really are a big cat, your majesty,” Samuel teased, and whatever response T’challa was going to make was lost when Samuel sucked him back again, then bobbed, wet and hot and slick, hands on T’challa’s hips to encourage him to thrust, but to keep control of it. Dictating what T’challa could and could not do.

He bunched his fists in the bed coverings, trying to keep himself still, to keep himself from hurting Samuel, from making him stop doing what he was doing.

Heat swirled in his belly with each stroke of Samuel’s lips, with each swipe of that hot tongue. Something beautiful and wonderful and necessary hovered just out of reach. Samuel peered up at him, eyes black and rich in the dim light, like promises that T’challa could almost taste.

“It’s okay, man,” Samuel told him. “You can scratch m’ back if you want. I like it.”

And he was back to having his hands on Samuel, fingernails digging in as if to hold himself down, to make their coupling leave marks.

His body shuddered at the way Samuel rocked him, licked and lipped. Pure, raw pleasure streaked through his body, pooling in his balls. He wasn’t big enough to hold so much sensation; it shattered through him like light.

He didn’t care.

All thoughts were driven from his head as a bubble of pleasure burst inside him and he was crying out, nails sinking even deeper, until thin trickles of blood ran down Samuel’s naked back, until--

All the coiled tension inside him sprung free, ricocheted around inside his body as his climax tore through him. Light danced in his vision as emotion, sensation, swept him away.

Some time later, he found the strength to open his eyes, to look down at the man, laying, smug smile firmly in place, against T’challa’s belly.

He was in no hurry to move, enjoying the feel of a solid, warm body on top of his. Soon, he would regain some energy, repay the favors so kindly and thoroughly given to him.

T’challa looked at the scratches and cuts along Samuel’s back. Licked his lips. He wanted to taste that skin there, the tang of copper and the heat of injury. “So, you like cats?”

Samuel chuckled. “Shut th’ hell up, man. I ain’t a bird, and you ain’t goan eat me up.”

T’challa responded with his own laugh, a deep, throaty thing that bubbled up inside him. “Oh, I’m not, am I?” He pushed Samuel over onto his back. “We shall see about that.”

 


End file.
